Exodus
by Compulsive Writer
Summary: Stricken with loss of comrade Spike Spiegel, Faye and Jet go on about their lives aboard the Bebop. When ISSP contacts Jet about the death of an old friend, he must face his past, and drags Faye along for the ride.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

1

The inevitable collapse of AkitaHartz Insurance began with a veritable bang. For six months, the Mars-based firm struggled like a patient stricken with a terminal disease, clinging desperately, however hopelessly, to life. During that time, the employees sat on their heels, wondering not 'if' but 'when', as is the case when inevitability is understood. The firm filed for bankruptcy even sooner than most expected, leaving more than five hundred dedicated employees jobless in a city where work was nearly impossible to obtain.

Firm broker Brad Artest knew better than to curse the expected. Sometimes things happen and there really is nothing that can be done. Simply put, the past cannot be altered. All he could do was look back and see how the downward spiral had begun. It isn't always easy to discern a single reason for any one course taken along the path of history. However, one can always reflect on circumstances that might lead to rationalization.

In the case of AkitaHartz Insurance, Artest had built a cause-and-effect theory based on the foundation of three primary events. First of all, nine weeks prior to the firm's downfall, came the so-called "veritable bang." The CEO of the firm, a wealthy gentleman by the name of Gideon Kane, was caught in the crossfire of a local turf war, set in motion by a drug deal gone sour. With Kane out of the picture, really a staple of success for the entire organization, many longtime customers began to break their ties with AkitaHartz.

And thus, the very foundation of the firm began to crumble.

The second event, in a bizarre twist of fate every bit as disheartening as the first, was the unexpected lawsuit slapped on the company by the government of Mars itself. Brad wasn't an attorney. He really didn't understand the intricacies of the suit, only that money had changed hands, illegally, and the government wasn't happy about it. Nearly two thirds of the firm's employees lost their jobs during that debacle. Artest _did_ know that outright bankruptcy was a direct result of the legal troubles.

The third was something impossibly sickening to swallow. It was something that had been difficult to see, something damn near impossible to understand. The whole ugly ordeal didn't really make much sense, but in actuality, while Gideon's death had seemed a "veritable bang," it was no more than a lame whimper in the grand scheme of things. Artest was eventually drawn to the bottle, in a bar where he surrendered his soul.

2

To the Jack Ryan Memorial Hospital staff, he was known as simply as John Doe. They had cared for him for the better part of two months, most of which he'd spent in intensive care. More recently, once the true threat to his life had passed, he'd been moved to a private room on the sixth floor. He had his own private nurse, a young woman named Darby Jones, responsible for his nourishment and medications, who bathed him and changed his sheets and checked his vitals; she'd practically observed him in every way throughout his tenure. She was fascinated by the man, a man she didn't know and perhaps never would. She wished she could sit down and talk with him, visit the individual beyond the patient. Comatose patients really were a drag, because while various conditions might hint at the man's lifestyle, you could never get clear picture of whom a person really was without decent, one-on-one conversation. She only knew that he'd been dumped off on the hospital doorstep more than two months ago, the day he was admitted. He'd been a bloodied mess of a man, cut up badly by way of what had to be some kind of blade, without any form of identification. Fingerprints, dental records, and even DNA tests had turned up dry, and thus "John Doe" came into her life. While she had other patients she would tend over the course of her day, no one quite grabbed her like he did. Mid-twenties, tall, dark, handsome, a man whom no doubt kept himself in great physical condition. He possessed everything in the physical aspects of a man she found attractive. But the question remained: who was he? More so, just who had he pissed off to wind up in this terrible predicament? She doubted she would ever know.

3

She was thinking about him again.

Sometimes, when she thought back to the kind of man he had been, Faye was relieved it was over. He'd just been a giant pain in the ass, and she had never denied herself the opportunity of telling him so before he'd rushed off to meet death. The memory should have given her a little bit of a boost. She always told herself she was better off without him. Of course she was. Faye didn't need such an arrogant prick telling her what a bitch she was whenever he felt like it. There was a certain, just freedom about it, and the thought of it should have brought peace to her heart.

Why then, she wondered, did it feel as though the weight of the universe was draped over her shoulders? Why was there no peace, as if a void had worked its way almost violently into the depths of her very soul? Her heart pounded at the very mention of his name, and she didn't like it. The storm raged endlessly inside her mind, and that only gave her a migraine.

But, what could she possibly do? She could leave, go somewhere where the memory might leave her be; she'd actually been considering it for some time now. Jet would understand. Might even appreciate the silence. Still, she didn't see how. The thought of departure gnawed at her conscience. Jet had lost a friend, too. Faye had to make sure he would be okay before she up and disappeared.

_Shit,_ Faye thought, closing her eyes. _Since when was I ever sympathetic? Jet's a big boy. He can take care of himself. Besides, I've got my own problems without having to worry about that old coot._ No matter how hard she tried, Faye could not convince herself to run away. Jet had given her a place to stay. As much as she hated to admit it—and by God, she would rather die than tell Jet the truth—she truly appreciated all he had ever done for her. She knew if she ever breathed a word of her feelings, he would never let her live it down. The young woman sighed and set down her fork.

"Hey, nobody's forcin' that shit down your throat."

"Huh?" Faye looked up to see him staring at her, and blushed. "Oh. It's not that. I was just thinking, that's all."

He arched his brow. "Oh? About what?"

"Hard to say, really." Her slender fingers played gently along the tabletop.

"Come on. We've been working together a long time. You can tell me."

"That's just it," Faye replied. The look she gave him was a warning: _Let it drop, old man._ Jet smirked and shoveled a bite into his mouth. She lay her head lightly against the back of her right hand, her elbow planted firmly to the tabletop. She knew he was still watching as she finally scooped up her fork her fork again and took bite of her own.

"See, it ain't so bad."

"Yeah, I guess not." Faye had to smile. Somehow, Jet found a way to cheer her up despite the massive crater left in her weary heart, despite the loss she so utterly regretted. She ate the rest of her meal in silence and then helped Jet to clear the table and clean the kitchen. It was so boring around the ship these days, without Ed to create the weirdness that she had grown to enjoy, and without Spike to do those insensitive things Spike was undoubtedly born to do.

When that was done, the two retired to the living room where they switched on the television and took in the daily events of the Jupiter colonies. Ganymede seemed to have had the most interesting day, as leftovers from the Red Dragon syndicate had raided a quick shop in an effort to gun down someone who had attempted to evade them. The story really didn't surprise Faye. After all, the syndicate had been struggling to remain on its feet for the past two months, since the collapse of their funds, and all the internal turmoil that she thought perhaps she understood quite well. Even Jet acted as though he had some inkling of the situation as they stared angrily at the set.

_And why wouldn't he?_ she thought. _It only makes sense, after what Spike did. He's the reason for all this. He has to be. He couldn't have surrendered his life for nothing. He wouldn't just die for nothing._

At least, that's what she kept telling herself. It was possible that Spike had simply gone to avenge Julia's death and failed. Maybe it was something else entirely that had brought shame to the Red Dragon. It was really more enjoyable, after all the horrible things she and Jet had gone through, to think that Spike had actually had something to do with the whole shebang. As far as timing went, it sure as hell made sense. Spike had gone to face Vicious. While it had been a foolish endeavor, at least she understood why Spike thought he had to go, and in the end, Vicious had fallen. She knew that much: Vicious was dead. An intriguing yet terrible man had been wiped from existence, and Faye would have gladly spit on his grave if given the chance. He was the reason, after all; it was because of him Spike had been forced to go back.

"Shit," Faye muttered, and plucked a cigarette from the near-empty pack on the coffee table. Her eyes never left the screen, which presently was showing a scene from the Ganymede quick shop, where medics were pulling a half a dozen stretchers from the chaos, covered with white sheets stained red. She shuddered. Well, Spike couldn't have stopped _this_ if he'd wanted to.

"Eleven dead," Jet muttered, reading the ticker at the bottom of the screen. "What a waste." Names of suspects were also released, as the reporter had indicated at the beginning of the broadcast. Neither Faye nor Jet recognized the names, though three of the four killers were reported dead, and they were thought to be members of the Red Dragon syndicate.

Jet shut off the television. "So?"

"So what?" Faye cast the old man a sidelong glance.

"What do you want to do?"

"You mean about the syndicate?"

He nodded. "Among other things."

Faye grunted. "Yeah? Fuck that." From the beginning they had known it was Spike's choice to go after Vicious. Together they had decided that no matter what, it would be a decision they would simply have to live with. For them, Spike had surrendered his life when he had gone off to complete his mission. That had been enough. They were through with his shit from then on. It was over. Yet neither had expected the great loneliness that had transpired because of their lost comrade. After all, he had been a comrade.

"I'm serious, Faye."

"Me too. And I say to hell with it." He eyed her for a moment, and she looked away, heaving a thick cloud of smoke into the already musty air. "I'm through banging heads with those bastards. It only leads to trouble."

"Yeah, you're right." He reached for a smoke.

"You're damn right I'm right."

"I know."

"I miss him."

"Me too."

They shared a look. It was the kind of exchange that left both numb and wishing they were anywhere but together, wallowing alone in the sadness that neither of them knew quite how to share. It was discomforting to say the least, and when Faye was uncomfortable about anything, she typically left the room. But now she didn't. She had already decided she couldn't do that to Jet, not now. He deserved a little respect for everything that he'd done for her, for Spike, for Ed and Ein. Of course he deserved respect. He was the one who had held the _Bebop_ together through it all, even if no one else had realized it. Faye did now, after a couple of months contemplating the loss of Spike, and it gave her courage that she never knew she possessed.

_I miss him,_ she had said. Hell yeah, she missed him, and it was probably pretty apparent to Jet, too. It was already hard enough to keep her thoughts to herself, after all the time they had been teammates. Now she was making the mistake of revealing her little confessions even when her heart didn't want anyone else to know. So much for keeping secrets. Then again, was it really all that big a secret? She was pretty sure he knew about the uncomfortable moment she had shared with Spike before he'd left the ship for the final time. That was pretty damn apparent, wasn't it? Gunfire typically alerts people to uncomfortable situations.

"I miss him a lot," she said finally, and stubbed out her cigarette.

Jet closed his eyes and nodded. "I know."

4

"Mr. Artest?"

Brad turned a lazy eye in the direction of the gruff voice, and saw a body to match. A man the size of a bull loomed over him, dressed in a black trench coat that barely concealed his massive bulk, the rim of his hat was pulled low so to shroud his eyes in shadow. "That's me," the young man said, touching his lips to the glass once more.

The big man introduced himself. "Connor." The two shook hands. "You're a shareholder of AkitaHartz Insurance."

Artest blinked. Nobody had ever approached him before, when the business had actually been in operation. What the hell did this bozo want? "Twenty-fucking-percent. As you know, twenty percent of nothing is nothing."

"I'm not here for money, sir," the big man replied. He leaned forward, lowering his voice considerably as he looked into Brad's eyes. "I just need a minute of your time."

Brad Artest rolled his eyes and gestured for the chair across the table. "Have a seat," he said. "But make it quick. My minutes are better spent wasted, if you know what I mean." He found his comment to be tumultuously funny. It evoked nothing more than a annoyed glare from the big man, but he was too drunk to really care. "Get on with it then. Don't expect I'll be able to help."

The man nodded after a moment and took a seat across from him. "I need information on a man you know. Used to sit in with the AkitaHartz board of trustees."

_The board of trustees? What the hell does this guy want?_ Brad leaned back, considering the bigger man for several seconds, and slid his glass away. "There were six board members other than myself. You're gonna have to give me a name."

"This man wasn't a board member," the big man replied, shifting his eyes slowly about the room. There weren't many other customers, and no one seemed to be paying much attention to either man. Satisfied, Connor leaned forward. Now his voice was little more than a whisper. Brad wondered about the secrecy of the exchange, but he didn't say anything. He went for another drink, but paused when his big friend continued. "He was a little weasel of a man—short, thin as a rail, pale. Mid-forties. Looked like a druggie, long, jet-black hair. Ponytail."

"Shit," Brad muttered as a wave of realization struck home. His eyes turned immediately up to the big man across from him. "You're talkin' about Cyrus Cole."

"That's him."

The young broker slid his glass aside. "Whadaya wanna know?"

5

Keeping up with the Father-person was proving to be harder work than Edward had anticipated. It didn't help that she'd found life on the _Bebop_ to be far kinder to her than it was out here. Actually, she'd mulled over a return to Jet-person's ship for some time, though that could prove difficult if she couldn't establish contact. She did her best to keep up with the Father-person and McIntyre-person, but it was a difficult task. At least she had Ein to keep her company, and while he only reminded her of good times spent back with her friends on the _Bebop_, such memories were never a bad thing. She only had to remind herself it had been her decision to leave.

That never stopped her from thinking back to the others. She hoped Faye-Faye had found happiness back home. After she'd left, Edward had decided that her time on the _Bebop_ was over, and she and Ein had set out to find her own.

While she never regretted her decision, she knew she would always miss the life of a bounty hunter. She might not have been the best, and the others might not have shown it, but her presence had been appreciated for the little things she was able to do, things that they would never have been able to accomplish without her.

Here, with the Father-person, there really wasn't much she could do. Tomato had run out of juice ages ago, and Edward couldn't stand life without her laptop. Life on the road was harsh, and while Ein was a worthy companion, he wasn't the most talkative of her friends, and the Father-person was too busy to offer her the attention a girl her age so desperately needed. She wondered if life had ever been that way to Faye, but she could easily remember the girl from the video tape from nearly a century ago, and she realized that couldn't possibly be the case. The girl in the tape, the younger version of Faye-Faye, had been so happy. That was more than Edward could say now.

Maybe, just maybe, Faye-Faye could use a visitor. The thought encouraged her, and more than once she had been all packed up and ready to go, only to decide against such a journey. After all, she wasn't quite sure where her friend was.

Oh well. Edward knew that sometimes, this was just the way life was. She'd made her decision, and for now, this was just how it was going to have to be.

6

"Well done, Mr. Fujita. Very well done indeed." Nicholai was a tall man with a long, black hooded cape draped over his shoulders, clasped around his neck by a silver chain. He smirked, as revealed by the candle that lit only the bottom half of the man's pale face. He peered down at the briefcase, filled with twelve hundred brand new, crisp 5000-wulong bills. A moment later, pale hands moved to close the case and set it on the floor at his feet. Then he peered back up to the suit sitting in front of him. "With the Cole family out of the way, the syndicate can return to business. You have certainly earned your pay."

Nicholai nodded. He didn't say anything. Nicholai never said anything. In his business, people really didn't need to hear his voice before they died. He looked from the businessman to the two cronies at his side. Both big men, bodyguards. Heavily armed.

"So, I trust you're interested in another job?"

Another nod. Another smirk.

"Very good, very good. And I have just the proposition for you." The businessman took a bite of his steak and sipped from his glass of white wine. He waved his knife at the assassin. "A few of Mao's faithful dogs. I want them found and eliminated. Quick and efficient, like." Nicholai simply stared at the man. The silence was apparently a bit too much for his employer to take, as he leaned forward, sliding a manilla envelope slowly across the desktop. "Good pay, as always." The man in black simply stared. He could see the other squirm beneath his emotionless stare. The feeling gave Nicholai a sense of power. "Job's yours if you want it. There are other assassins, if you don't…" Nicholai brushed aside his cape to reveal the katana beneath. He thumbed the crossguard of the blade, lifting it an inch out of the sheath. The businessman gazed quietly at the weapon.

Suddenly, the killer threw out his left hand, flinging something into the air. There was a sudden and brief whisking sound, which ended quickly with two sudden smacks, almost like the sound of a finger being flicked against flesh. He was so deceptively fast, no one could respond before both of the man's cronies had fallen, twin, three-inch blades lodged in their throats."What the hell are you doing!" the businessman demanded, having somehow maintained his composure, showing enough arrogance to reveal he wasn't quite frightened by the lethal turn of events. It was so humorous that Nicholai had to smile again.

Soon, as the gurgling sound of men drowning in their own blood faded, the assassin pulled his katana free. He brought the blade of the weapon up so his target could see it gleam against the candlelight, only to enrage the businessman.

"Put that thing away! I _paid_ you!"

"You paid Nicholai to do a job," came a voice from the dead. He could see the other's eyes widened as he stiffened in his chair. Nicholai wondered if he'd pissed his pants as a result of the shock. That would've been pretty funny. "He's no longer contractually obligated to you. Which means, old friend, the playing field is open."

"You!" The businessman was shaking, but somehow, he did remarkably well to keep a level voice. Nicholai was impressed. "You can't be serious. The syndicate is teetering on a ledge. The last thing it needs is to change hands now…"

The figure of a man appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by light in the hallway beyond. "Don't play me for a fool, Chan. I _am_ the stability of the syndicate."

"The hell you are. You're the reason for its downfall."

"So like a vulture you swoop down in the darkest of hours to seize a tarnished prize? You're no more than an accountant with an attitude." The shadow of a man approached the desk, and Nicholai stepped aside, bowing his head. "What good is a dog without teeth? I am a tiger, one whose bite is as great as its voice."

"You can't kill me, Vicious."

"On the contrary, old friend." The man drew his blade.

"I control all the funds of the syndicate. I know the business better than anyone." Chan shot a look to the assassin. By the look on his face, Nicholai saw that he understood. He now knew the true reason the contract had been accepted. So like Vicious, to play the field in such a way. "I'm more valuable than anyone left in the syndicate."

Vicious smirked. "Not to me, Chan. To me, you are so much more valuable as a corpse." He lifted the sword. The accountant opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came; he was so frightened his lungs refused to work. An instant later, Vicious expertly swiped the blade through the man's skull. Wiping the blood from the weapon onto his victim's shirt, Vicious shot a look to Nicholai, a man with whom he had served in combat. Perhaps a man as deadly as anyone alive.

"Well done, Mr. Fujita," he murmured as he sheathed his sword, wearing a smirk calculated to mock the dead. Nicholai bowed once more with respectful. "Very well done indeed."


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

1

As the _Bebop_ dropped out of hyperspace, the mottled globe of Jupiter took shape in the forward viewport. Jet Black stubbed out his cigarette. The orbit of the massive planet was abuzz with traffic, ships of all shapes and sizes buzzing about this way and that, hundreds of people going about their personal business, most completely oblivious of the dangers that lurked in the backdrop of their daily lives. For these people, the atrocity of the day before had been no more than a sad and sickening blurb on the local airwaves, probably doing nothing but disturbing the sanctuary of their existence. Out here, somewhere, Jet knew there were those who knew much more about the syndicate than he could ever dream, but those creeps were few and far between.

Jet piloted the_ Bebop _slowly along the transit markers, plotting a course for Ganymede. The trip had been a smooth one, something that had become a common occurrence over the past few months. Faye didn't bitch about where they went anymore, and without Spike and Edward, that meant a hell of a lot less bitching than Jet had grown accustomed to. Which meant there was a new routine in his travels throughout the solar system, and that routine entailed sweet silence.

The radio blasted space-traffic directives to all ships en route to Ganymede. Jet, who instantly recognized the obvious changes in the regular routine, adjusted the volume of the communications console and keyed in fresh coordinates into the computer every couple of minutes to correspond to the directive. The most direct and obvious change was the lack of oncoming traffic meaning that no one was leaving Ganymede via customs, and by the length of the long line waiting to get in, Jet knew it'd be a long while before the _Bebop_ could even check in. Probably they were running level three inspections of each ship. It seemed odd that space-traffic control would make any such changes to the routine, but it wouldn't be the first time Jet had been forced to handle any such inconveniences. He might even learn something along the way.

The government had taken drastic measures to secure Ganymede airspace. A public shoot-out to the extremes of the previous day was enough to shut down the order of an entire world, and this brutal battle had done just that. Everyone suffered—some more than others—but in this case, Jet, as a former policeman, knew the ropes. He would abide by the law, just like any other upstanding citizen, whether or not he had a choice. He was simply that kind of man. He plucked a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket and leaned back. It was gonna be quite a wait, and he knew it. He scratched his beard, allowing his thoughts to drift. Soon, the scent of fresh lilacs and a pair of soft footsteps alerted him to his young partner as she slipped into the room, refreshed after her morning shower. He risked a glance over his shoulder; Faye was draped loosely in her bathrobe, a towel wrapped like a turban around her wet hair. He watched as she strolled over to the coffeepot and helped herself to a cup and three heaping scoops of sugar.

"Morning," she mumbled as she slid over to his side. She blinked at the viewport, staring at the heavy traffic. At first, nothing clicked. Her mind was still muddled from a dismal night's sleep, no doubt groggy from the muggy atmosphere in which she preferred to shower. Jet took his cigarette from his lips and exhaled. He watched her emerald eyes twitch a little, as the scene took shape before her. "Where the hell are we?"

"Ganymede Space Transit." Jet stubbed out his smoke and looked back down at the computer station. A monotone voice spilled out over the airwaves, informing the line of ships it would be a twenty minute wait before the next ship would be allowed to enter Ganymede airspace. Jet rolled his eyes, but he'd known exactly how it was going to be from the moment the _Bebop_ had dropped out of hyperspace.

Faye collapsed into a chair nearby, staring at the screen. "I thought we weren't coming to Ganymede."

"We agreed we weren't going after the syndicate," Jet replied. He shut down the computer, knowing it would be a while before they could go anywhere. "I have some unfinished business down here. I figured if we're not here after a bounty, we might as well take a load off for a bit."

"What business would an old fart like you have on Ganymede?"

"I have a meeting with other old farts."

"Your friends from the force?"

"Might say that. More like friends I made when I was with the force." He glanced over to the girl. Faye was more alert now, though she held a hand to her temple as if her head was killing her. Seemed possible, considering that a trip to Ganymede was more than a little out of the way, and that this was the colony where members of the Red Dragon syndicate had ruthlessly attacked and killed shoppers in a quick shop. "I don't think we'll be staying too long," he offered, hoping she would let it slide.

Fortunately, she shrugged, a sign of surrender. "Nothin' better to do. Might as well ride it out." She lounged back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other and allowing her robe spill away from her raised knee, revealing the length of one tone thigh. She didn't seem to notice the glance he stole of her before returning his attention to the line of ships before them. Many were as old and rundown as the _Bebop_, and a few were large, commercial freighters en route to disperse their cargo to various businesses on Ganymede. There were even two or three sleek vessels, too leisurely to be company owned, too rigid to be private yachts. Maybe secured government transports? Seemed like a reasonable assumption. Mars was probably sending Ganymede help for dealing with yesterday's shoot-out, considering the origins of the Red Dragon.

Ten minutes passed without incident. Both bounty hunters kept to themselves for the duration. Jet wondered what Faye was thinking about. She spent a lot of her time dwelling on things that hurt. Not exactly brooding, but at the same time, she wasn't a happy person either. He supposed that really wasn't the biggest of surprises. A few short months ago, she had finally learned who she had been before the accident that had forced her to be put into cryogenic stasis to save her life, only to find that nothing of that aspect of her life existed anymore. Then she had lost a man who had come to be a close friend, not to mention Edward. Now, there was only Jet, and he was pretty sure she wasn't satisfied with him over the other two.

"I think you're wrong," she said suddenly. Jet blinked, trying to figure out how she could have possibly known what he was thinking. He cast her a sidelong glance, but before he could ask what she meant, Faye leaned forward, staring to the viewport. She smirked. "We're gonna be in line a hell of a long time."

Jet grinned back. "Yeah. Guess so."

"If anyone could fuck up a schedule…" she started.

"Hey, don't give me that shit. You and Spike were the ones who refused to play by the rules, remember?" Faye was still grinning as she drained her coffee cup. Her partner laughed, resting his thumb against his temple as he stroked his fingertips against his brow.

Another minute of silence followed before something finally changed in their field of vision. In open space, outside the transit rings, were three two-man vehicles clearly marked by big block letters along the front, just beneath the cockpit dome: POLICE. Jet let his eyes follow their course across the starfield, wondering just what it was they were doing. It wasn't often that anyone flew outside the transit rings this close to an inhabited world. It was against the law. If the cops were out there now, it could only indicate one thing: they were after a ship that had decided to take the chance. It was impossible to tell whether their quarry was trying to get to Ganymede or sneak away.

Faye leaned forward as she stared dumbly as the three ships faded to specks against the darkness. He could see the question in her emerald eyes. _I wonder where they're headed in such a hurry?_ Jet didn't bother to speak. Instead, he turned his eyes to the comm as a red light flickered on. Frowning, he reached out to flip the switch.

"This is the _Bebop_." No face appeared on the monitor. Audio only, it seemed. "Jet Black speaking."

The voice that responded was a youthful one, with an eagerness that Faye couldn't have anticipated. "Jet Black? _The_ Jet Black, pilot, captain, and owner of the _Bebop_? Former law enforcement officer turned space cowboy, feared by outlaws, beggars, riffraff, gangsters, and murderers, loved by law-abiding citizens everywhere?"

Jet frowned. "Yeah, yeah. That Jet Black."

"Never heard of 'im."

Faye grinned. "I don't know who you are but I certainly like your attitude."

Jet shot her a glare before returning to his contact. "Who the hell is this?" he demanded. "How'd you get this channel?"

A laugh boomed over the comm. "Lieutenant Alexander Kane, Inter-Solar Systems Police." Jet frowned, letting his thoughts drift back to happier times, considering all the people he'd known, all of the names he might have heard, and came to realize that Alexander Kane wasn't on the list. He shot Faye another look, but she seemed just as clueless as always. _Who the hell is this guy?_ he wondered.

"The ole hag's told me quite a bit about you," Kane added. "The man who single-handedly broke the Dogma case."

"Well now, I wouldn't say that…" Jet said, scratching his bald head.

Alexander howled. "ISSP records say otherwise, Black Dog. 'Once he gets his teeth in you, he doesn't let go.'"

"Mmm." Faye leaned forward, eyeing Jet with an amused smirk on her face. "Nah, that doesn't sound like my Jet at all."

Jet slashed a hand across his throat, a clear indicator for her to shut her mouth. Faye arched her brow, leaning forward. Jet tried to ignore the fact that the front of her robe was running dangerously close to spilling open. He looked quickly away. "Alexander Kane, you say? ISSP lieutenant?"

"That's right, sir."

"Care to tell me something, kid?"

A pause. "What's that?" Alexander asked.

"What the hell are you doin' on this channel? One of my old co-workers put you up to this?"

"More like your old boss. Remember Sylvia Borden?"

Jet inhaled sharply. "_Commissioner_ Sylvia Borden? That old bat's still on the force?" He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "What's she doing looking for me?"

"No, she's not with the force anymore. At least, not directly. Commissioner Lambert took over a few months back, if you can imagine." _Harvey Lambert,_ Jet thought. What the hell was that guy doing with ISSP? Before he could put words to the question, Alexander continued: "Anyway, Sylvia's the one who secured my position before she resigned. She thought it was the least she could do after all my mother did for her, back in the day."

"Your mother?"

"Yeah. She was in the homicide division."

"Homicide." The word slid easily off Jet's tongue, followed by realization. Jet leaned forward. "Hell, you don't mean Sandra Monroe? _You're_ Alex Monroe?"

Alexander laughed. "Well, not anymore. Mom married into the insurance business a few years back. Jeremiah Kane. He's the son of the AkitaHartz Insurance CEO that was knocked off a few months back."

_Hence the new name,_ Jet thought. "I'll be Goddamned. Last time I saw you…hell, you were just a little squirt."

"Yeah, that's me. I took the name because Jeremiah and I got to be pretty close."

_Not to mention your father is a huge prick_, Jet thought sourly. He let out a soft sigh and leaned forward. "And how's Sandy these days?"

A silence followed. "She died. Couple months ago, working a case."

"Oh…" Dark eyes settled somberly on the long line of ships ahead of him. He sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that, Alex."

"Yeah. So was I." Alex hesitated for a time, as if trying to settle his dampened spirit. "Look, Jet. Sylvia's in a heap of trouble, and I was tryin' to help out."

Jet stole another look at Faye. The girl adjusted her robe against her legs and rose into a seated position to eye her partner. "Alex? What's wrong?"

Another pause. "Shouldn't talk about it over this channel. Sylvia told me to remind you of the roost. Said you'd know what it means."

Jet frowned. "The roost. I get the message." He paused for a moment, considering the girl beside him. "Tell her I'll be there."

Faye shot him a look that would melt steel. Jet ignored her. Right now there were bigger concerns in the world than Faye's happiness. Hell, his was shot as it was. Why shouldn't he be able to drag her down with him? It never stopped her from doing the same to him. After shutting down his comm, Jet rose to his feet and turned to the door.

"Jet!" she snapped. For a moment, he paused in the doorway. "Wait just a goddamn minute! What the hell did you just get me into?"

"Beats the hell outta me."

"I thought we were here so you could meet with your friends!"

"Yeah. Just so happens Sylvia Borden is a good friend of mine." Without another word, he turned and stormed from the room. Brooding with each step he took through the cold, metal halls of his ship, Jet came to a realization that he really didn't give a shit about what Faye Valentine thought. He had to know what was going on. Sylvia was important to him. If she was in trouble, he was going to be there for her. Screw the consequences. Screw everything. He'd spent far too long babysitting people like Faye that he'd forgotten Jet Black was human too. It was about damn time he did what he wanted, for reasons that suited him. That was the very _least_ he owed himself after the last few years of hell he'd been through. That understanding suited him well enough.

Satisfied, the Black Dog thrust his hands into his pockets and trudged to his room.

2

The Hole In The Wall Tavern—the "Roost," as it was called by certain members of ISSP—was a rundown bar on the outskirts of the Ganymede colony, run by a rugged bear of a man called Geoff Zacharias, tall, heavyset, unshaven, complete with a voice to match. Jet pushed the rim of his cap slightly over his brow with his middle and forefingers and peered quietly about the empty room. The chairs were set up onto the tabletops and the lights were dim, a clear sign that the place was closed. The air was thick with smoke. Geoff was at his usual place behind the bar, leaning against the counter as he wiped the surface with a damp rag, chewing on the end of a burning cigar. Straightening his suit, Jet drew a breath and headed to greet his old friend.

The place hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been here, about four years and two months ago, shortly after he and Spike had teamed up for the very first time, though he could see time hadn't been too rough on the old bartender. The Russian was a little thinner, seemed a little healthier, maybe even a little happier then he was during his last visit.

He made his way through the maze of tables and came up to meet his friend, pulling off his hat and setting it on the counter. The two stared at each other for a few somber moments, and then Geoff broke into a huge grin. "Why, if it ain't the Black Dog," he said as he dropped his rag on the counter and thrust his hand out over the bar. Jet took it without hesitation. "Tell me, what brings you back to this hellhole?"

"A mutual friend," Jet replied. "Geoff Zacharias. How ya doin', old man?"

"No complaints, anyway."

"Good to hear." Jet lowered himself into a barstool as Geoff dug out a bottle and two glasses. He saw an antique jukebox from the late Twentieth Century in the corner of the room and wondered how long his friend had owned it. He couldn't recall seeing it during his previous visits to the bar, but then again, this was the first time he'd been here during closing hours with nobody else around. A soft, lilting tune seeped from the speakers and saturated the air with its woeful purity.

Geoff slid a drink toward him and poured a second for himself, leaning against the counter. Jet realized, not for the first time, how great it really felt to be somewhere he truly felt he belonged. He thoroughly remembered his last visit here and was grateful that Geoff seemed to have forgiven the misfortunes of _that_ little adventure. The big Russian lowered his glass and shook his head slowly as he inspected his friend. "Didn't expect you here so quick, Jet."

Jet eyed the man and sipped his vodka. "I was in the neighborhood."

Geoff raised a thick, bushy brow but didn't say a word. The two were silent as he went back to wiping the counter. There was a difference in the big man's demeanor, a fact undoubtedly brought on by their lack of contact over the past few years. Jet regretted instantly that he'd never even made a phone call. Finally, Geoff lifted a casual eye back to his old friend. "Tell me, friend: how's the cowboy business?"

"Sucks most the time."

"Sorry to hear."

With a nod, Jet drained his glass. "How did Sandy die?"

A sad look came over the Russian's face as he peered to Jet. He could see instantly his big friend didn't have all the details, but he knew enough. It hadn't been a pleasant sight, Jet realized. As Geoff poured Jet another drink, he told the tale of her disappearance, which proved to be an abduction three days later when the search ended in a gruesome discovery. Geoff didn't care to describe the scene, but Jet insisted.

Sandy's corpse, or what was left of it, had been discovered in the back of an unmarked car in a rundown, crime-infested neighborhood of the Ganymede colony. How she had died was impossible to determine, though there had been a great deal of postmortem trauma. There could be no certainty to the actual cause of death, but it was undoubtedly murder. There had been no denying that. The questions remained: who was her killer, and was there enough evidence to pin the deed on a suspect? They didn't even have so much as a skin cell beneath Sandy's fingernails.

Jet swallowed at the description and glanced down at his glass.

"Rape?" he asked.

"No evidence," he said. "Not so much as a drop of semen."

Jet nodded. Perhaps, maybe, his good friend had been spared at least that indignity, though she apparently had suffered everything else. He drained the remainder of his vodka and slammed the glass down on the counter.

"Mind if I buy you another?"

Jet looked up. It wasn't Geoff that had spoken, but he knew the voice all too well. He turned to see a short woman in her sixties, staring back at him. Her short, wavy hair was white as snow, and her face held the soft countenance, brimming with the sober determination he'd known for nearly eighteen years, when he was nothing more than a rookie of the force. He hadn't even heard her come in, and he remembered how she used to be known as the White Ghost in her youth. Damn, she'd been a good cop. Jet had to smile, despite himself. "Sylvia Borden," he said, rising.

"Have a seat, Jet. I'll come to you."

She moved with a slight limp, a battle scar that had forced her from the field to a desk job in her late-forties. Jet remembered being there in Intensive Care after she was moved from the operating room, and how she described the incident even as she regained consciousness to find him and several other ISSP officers standing over her.

Jet had been the one to break the question: "Well, what the hell happened out there?"

She'd rolled her eyes and grumbled through her oxygen mask. "I got my ass shot."

The two sat in silence for several moments as Geoff poured three more drinks, sliding two toward his guests. They toasted silently to their lost friend and drained their glasses a moment later. There was a long moment as each waited for one of the others to break the silence, but it was such a respectful silence that Jet just couldn't find the right words, nothing worthy of the somber time they shared. Maybe it was a time best spent in the quiet of the night. He swallowed and gave Sylvia a quiet stare. She nodded her understanding. Like old times, Jet found he could hold a conversation with his old friend without a single word having to be said.

The door opened again, and two others slid quietly into the room.

Benedict Allen hadn't changed a bit since Jet had last seen him, still the hulking bull of a man he'd been back when Jet was on the force. He was in his late-thirties, about Jet's age, though he'd actually come onto the force three years after Jet, when the Black Dog had already made a name for himself, and instantly "The Bull," as he came to be known, earned a reputation as ISSP muscle. It was a nickname that proved to be well earned and much deserved. His partner in law enforcement was half his size, a skinny white man, at least a head shorter but still tall in his own right, and no less of a force in terms of confidence. Jet didn't know him, as he was a youngster with the eyes of a veteran. His golden blond hair was tousled, though clean, and his eyes were piercingly green.

It took a moment to realize who the kid was, but his face and his eyes told the story before he even had to ask. Jet rose to his feet as Ben and the kid joined him and Sylvia at the bar. He shook hands with the strong grip of "The Bull" offering a silent nod, and then shook hands with the big man's partner.

"Alexander Kane," Jet said.

A somber smile crossed the boy's lips before he nodded. "That's right, sir."

The two shook hands. Jet had actually met Alex as a few times before—once when Sandy had brought him to the station and three or four times during a visit to her apartment—but it had been ages since he'd seen the boy. No longer was he the child of his youth. He was a man, and Jet could clearly see the potential for growth, the eagerness for justice, that he'd once held when he was nothing but a rookie on a force that respected him. That was one thing about ISSP: he'd always felt as though he'd been wanted, until the day he'd lost his arm. He could see the same misguided faith in the eyes of the boy before him.

"God, you look like your mother."

Alex's eyes sparkled, though his mood remained somber. "So they tell me."

"We all here then?" Benedict asked, glancing to the former ISSP commissioner.

"Lieutenant Kitch helped to set this little meeting up," Sylvia replied. "But he's swamped, what with the massacre at the quick shop."

Jet nodded. "Saw it on the news," he said. "Must 'a been a hell of a mess."

Sylvia seemed to shudder at the thought of it. Jet thought they all seemed a little less than enthusiastic about discussing the matter. No doubt what he'd seen on TV was the abridged version of the chaos. Well, that was putting it mildly, but he couldn't know without the knowledge. Jet drew a deep breath and leaned forward. "So, I assume you called me in to do more than talk about ancient history and current events," he said quietly.

"We're after the bastard who killed Sandy," Sylvia confirmed quietly, draining her glass.

Jet frowned. "I didn't think there'd be enough evidence to pick from a list of suspects."

"There wasn't," Benedict said, leaning forward. "At least, not until today."


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

1

A touch of scotch is the best medicine, his father had once told him.

The name and face on the monitor was his own: Dylan Cole. The bounty was a heavy one for a street punk, two and a half million wulongs. At the same time, he was being considered as the lone surviving gunman who had helped to butcher eleven innocent bystanders in a gun battle within a Ganymede quick shop. Maybe two point five mil was a little bit on the light side. With his world spinning beyond the point of control, his father's prescription seemed a fitting release from reality. The sequence of events, beginning two months before with the murder of some beat cop in the gang-laden outskirts of the Ganymede colony and concluding with the massacre at the quick shop, only gave body to the desire churning through his battle-scarred heart. For a man who had never touched the bottle in his life, now seemed as good a time as any to start. He poured himself a drink and toasted to the empty starfield before him.

"Be at peace, brother," Dylan Cole said quietly, and sipped his scotch.

Dark memories weighed heavily on the soul. His brother was dead, the latest in a long line of victims hunted by the Red Dragon syndicate, a target of the assassin known on the streets of Ganymede as the Reaper. Dylan had been there, witness to horrible massacre that was no more for the assassin than a diversion from the real operation. According to ISSP, the Reaper was no more than a street legend, born in the darkest minds of the underworld to frighten the people of Ganymede into submission so the gangs could overrun the streets of the colony. Dylan knew better.

The final words he had shared with his brother had begun with an exchange of apologies: Dylan, for not being there to help when the decisive bullet was fired, and Jason, for leaving before he could fulfill his duties to his family, his duty to his brother. Before his death, Dylan's older brother had forced him into a promise. _Find her brother…please…find my Darby. Tell her…I love her. _It was a request Dylan could never say no to. Darby Jones would have been a Cole herself, Jason's beloved wife, if not for the violent spin that had befallen the Red Dragon, when Vicious had begun his little coup d'état.

So much blood spilt over a little money. Was this really what the world had come to? The young man shook his head. _Dumb question, Dyl,_ he told himself, and drained his glass. _You think too much. Focus on the task at hand and get it done._ He lay the glass down and poured another shot. He downed it quickly and lay his hands on the controls of the _Hotaru_. He had turned the bow of the ship toward a dim, red speck on the starfield, and there he sat. He knew he'd have to go to Mars on his own. He didn't know exactly what he was planning to do once he arrived, but he was sure he could think of something. The Ganymede police had chased him throughout Jupiter air-space until he'd managed to loose them in the dark side of one of Jupiter's many smaller moons. The stunt likely meant he'd severed any potential ties with justice for a long time to come, though he suspected the massacre at the quick shop had done that all on its own.

He wasn't one of the bad guys, but they didn't know that.

Obviously, once he got there, he couldn't get to Darby. At least, not yet, not with the bounty placed on him. That was just another obstacle he'd have to work around. He couldn't just go through the front door; _that_ would be suicide. He couldn't avenge Jason's death if he himself was dead. There would have to be another way, and he felt deep inside Darby knew someone with the answer.

He had a name. If he found Darby, he'd find her. Annie. She could help him get to Spike Spiegel, the only one who help him nab the Reaper and clear his name.

Dylan Cole lifted the .357 Magnum in both hands, peering down the site of the firearm as if taking aim. After a moment's inspection, he lowered the weapon and slipped it into its holster. He grabbed a box of bullets from the compartment next to the emergency hatch airlock and deposited those into his pocket. Anger bubbled over. He hated the Red Dragon syndicate, hated it with a passion. What the hell had his father been thinking, joining that merciless horde? The idiot had gotten himself and his wife killed, leaving Dylan and his brother to fend for themselves. Lambs to the slaughter indeed, with the syndicate chasing them. Jason had met that same, terrible fate back on Ganymede. Dylan was lucky—or perhaps cursed—to have escaped intact.

He wouldn't be able to get travel by normal means through the Jupiter jumpgate but that didn't matter. He had all the time in the world to figure out the best route to Mars, and then he had to get to Darby and fulfill his brother's dying wish.

2

Benedict lay a manilla envelope out on the table in the middle of the empty bar and opened it. Within were images of four young men, seemingly hoodlums in their late teens and early twenties, along with biographical data on each of the men. Picking out one of the four, Alex Kane slid it over to Jet. He had a long, serious look on his face, and Jet knew this wouldn't be a good night to run into the young man in a dark alley.

"Who's this?" the Black Dog asked, gazing to the image.

Benedict snorted. "Cole, Dylan Bryant. Street punk, originally from Mars. His father was a drug pusher for the Red Dragon syndicate for a number of years, but he eventually bought out and moved his family to Ganymede six years ago. The syndicate didn't have much of a problem as far as that goes. Then again, it's pretty common knowledge that once a syndicate…"

"Always a syndicate," Jet muttered, shaking his head. "So, you think because this guy's old man was a member of the syndicate, they tapped him to carry out a shooting spree in a downtown Ganymede quick shop?"

"He was there." Benedict glowered at the image. He shook his head, furious, as he slammed the photo back onto the tabletop. "Security cameras show his presence and the fact he was armed. They don't prove that he actually fired any rounds, but eye witnesses all indicate there were four gunmen. Three of them are in body bags. This bastard's the survivor."

"Any idea where the kid might be hiding?" Jet asked.

"Hard to say for sure." Sylvia's brow scrunched a little as she let her fingers slowly trail the oak tabletop and watched the four men with a curious eye. "Ganymede officials locked down Jupiter air traffic for a reason. He's not leaving the planet, that's for sure."

Jet caught a glimpse of his old friend out of the corner of his eye. Sylvia seemed a worn and ragged old broad, something he wasn't used to seeing in his former commissioner. Her suit was wrinkled, the scarf a jumbled mess at her throat, as if she had chosen her attire hastily before rushing out the door. She'd never been a smoker either, but now she was busy fidgeting with an old lighter, trying to ignite a tiny flame. She was having a hell of a time of it. He pulled his own from one of the many pockets in his trench coat and lit it, holding it out to her.

A puff or two later, the old woman heaved a thick cloud of smoke from her lungs. "I doubt he'd leave the dome."

"Air traffic isn't foolproof," Jet commented, lighting his own smoke. "What if he got outside the transit rings and made a run for it?"

"I don't think so." Benedict slipped the pictures back into the envelope and stuffed it into his coat. "Wouldn't hurt to check, though. I'll notify ATC and have them run a check on any ships that might have strayed from the transit groupings." He glanced to Sylvia. "There's always at least one. The police might chase them some distance, but they'll never chase anyone outside maximum orbit."

"That'd be a good idea," Sylvia grumbled. She flicked the edge of her cigarette onto the rim of the ashtray. "You do that. If anyone got out, it'd be a good idea to run a full background check on the vehicle and any passengers, whether they match Cole's description or not."

Alex cleared his throat. "I've got the ballistics team working on the crime scene. They'll be checking the bullets with the guns. When we figure out what bullets didn't match a gun, will be a step closer to Cole."

Jet leaned back and scratched his stubbled chin. Something about what they were telling him didn't quite make sense. Here was a kid, a street punk with an attitude. His father had been a member of the Red Dragon six years ago, but he'd given up on that life and moved his family to Ganymede. Now he was supposed to believe that this kid had been called upon by the syndicate to wreak havoc on the good people of Ganymede.

Somebody had shot back.

"Who killed the other three?" he asked, looking up. The others watched him blankly. "Oh come on. You're telling me these three guys walked into the quick shop and opened fire on hapless civilians, and on top of that took each other out? Think about it. When the smoke had cleared, three of his buddies were dead and he was long gone. The syndicate aren't exactly the type to blast away at their own in the middle of a massacre. There's something missing guys."

Bull grumbled something under his breath. Jet shot him a look, but he didn't seem likely to respond. The Black Dog frowned when he realized why.

"You guys didn't think about that, did ya?"

The big man slammed his fist on the bar. "Hell yeah, we thought about that! We…" He paused, fists clenched. Jet saw that his old friend wasn't angry with him. He was furious at himself. They knew someone had fought back; they simply hadn't figured out who. Sipping from his bottle, Jet considered the possibility that they had their back to the wall. "Damn it, Jet, we're doin' our best. It's just, it's not always good enough. People die everyday at someone else's hand. We can't catch 'em all, seldom do…"

Jet narrowed his eyes. "That why you called me?" he asked.

Bull blinked. "Whaddaya mean?"

"When's the last time you actually called me?" Jet pressed. "We've hardly talked in four years, and when we do, it's typically passing out information."

Sylvia held up a hand. "Now that's not fair," she said. "We called you because we're talking about the death of a friend."

"Sandy. Yeah, I know." He shook his head. "Never got so much as a call when that happened. Now you call me when you might have a suspect."

The silence told him that they could see the mistake they had made. The look Alex gave his partner was biting. Bull turned his eyes to something off in the shadows. Jet shook his head and waved away the misunderstanding. "Water under the bridge. Forget it." Things had been pretty hectic over the last few months, across the solar system, so he supposed he could even understand the faux pas. He leaned forward and gave them each a slow, deliberate look. "But what exactly makes this guy a suspect?"

Bull drew a slow breath, collecting himself. "We've been to the little bastard's apartment. He had a stolen electronics there. We matched several serial numbers to items stolen from Sandy's car the day she was murdered."

Jet saw the look on Alex's face, the pent-up fury that he held inside. The young man's fingers wrapped about the handle of his beer stein, his knuckles white. He stared at a bowl of beernuts, though it was obvious food was the last thing on the poor guy's mind at the moment. The bounty hunter swallowed and peered about to his two former comrades. "I don't know what kind of dirt I can dig up, but if this little shit left a trail, I'll damn well get a whiff."

_When the Black Dog sinks his teeth in you, he doesn't let go._

Sylvia slid a small, black devise toward him, a radio. He gave her a questioning look. She fixed him with a meaningful stare. "Harvey doesn't know you're in on the case. This will let you get hold of me without alerting him to you." Jet understood. In fact, he would prefer Harvey Lambert didn't know he was even on Ganymede. The two never really cared much for one another. He slipped the radio into his breast pocket and looked up to his former commissioner.

"What is it exactly you want me to do?"

3

"You weren't in there very long."

Jet shot Faye a look as climbed into the rented vehicle next to her and signaled for her to get a move on. She grumbled something under her breath and shifted gears. The two started off through the streets of the Ganymede colony.

Jet was having a difficult time adjusting to the knowledge that another of his longtime comrades had been died, murdered at the hands of…what was his name? Dylan Bryant Cole? Some punk kid off the streets with a lust for stolen goods? This was the young man they thought had killed an old friend? Jet wasn't so sure. It seemed like something the syndicate would do, take a kid whose father had skipped out on them and bend him to their desire. Wipe out the dead-beat dad and seize the one purity that he had possessed.

Yeah, he could imagine they'd do something like that. But to run an operation so ruthlessly messy that the cops could trace it back to them in a matter of a few hours? Foolhardy. Jet didn't think the syndicate was exactly the type of operation run by fools. Vicious or no Vicious.

It seemed no less than ironic that after all the trouble he and Faye had gone through to avoid the Red Dragon syndicate that he was about to throw the both of them headlong into the fray.

The old man leaned forward, crossing his arms against the dashboard, and peered out to the streets as they raced on by. His head was spinning with questions lingering on both suspicion and doubt, neither he could justify one way or the other. He knew only what his former comrades had told him, and it seemed, for the time being, that he would just have to go by what he knew. Which wasn't much.

"Where are we going?" Faye asked. Jet blinked over to her. "Oh, come on. You have to have a plan. You didn't just leave a bunch of old farts hanging to catch up on old times."

He frowned and put his chin on his palm, staring out to the buildings as they rushed passed. "There's a series of old apartment buildings on the north end of town. The slums. They call it Salem's Haunt."

"Yeah, I've heard of it," Faye replied.

"The bounty we're after used to live there."

A small smirk spread across her scarlet lips. "Well why didn't you say so?" She peeled off to the right, guiding the vehicle expertly between two parked cars, and pressed her toe against the accelerator. She spun through a busy sidewalk, barreled just past a newspaper stand, and cut north through a vacant alley, screaming victoriously as she left a trail of dust in their wake.

Jet's fingers dug unforgivingly into the vinyl dashboard.

"What's the name?" Faye yelled over the roaring engine.

"Cole!" Jet called back. "Two point five mil."

"Seems kinda small," she grunted, her face twisting in consideration. "What'd he do?"

Jet shrugged. "Murder." No sense in telling her the whole truth. Especially considering he wasn't sure it was entirely the truth.

Faye nodded. "Murder. Got it. And you think this guy's in Salem's Haunt?"

"Don't know." In fact, he rather doubted it. "But it's a start."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Several long minutes later, Faye turned onto Highway Nine, slid into the fast lane, and accelerated north along one of the city's busier streets. Towering skyscrapers cut the purple sky to their right, the downtown section of the colony. Dead ahead, in about five minutes, Jet knew, was Salem's Haunt. He popped open the glove compartment and pulled out his sidearm. Quickly, he slid in a magazine until it clicked. He checked to see the safety was set before slipping the weapon into its holster, which he strapped to his belt, and grabbed for the grey trench coat in the seat behind him. Faye shot him a look from the corner of her eye.

She said nothing, only continued to drive. The sun waned on the horizon as twilight approached. The deep purple sky grew steadily darker with each passing minute. They didn't speak during the five minutes. Jet had his mind set on the mission, and Faye didn't press him. He was relieved that she gave him his space.

Besides, there'd be plenty of time for a game of twenty questions later.

4

He'd been to Salem's Haunt many times in his past, but not since he lost his arm in the line of duty, and that was a long time ago. Jet wasn't pleased—nor at all surprised, for that matter—to learn that nothing had changed since his last visit. A dark and dirty haven for the devil, Salem's Haunt was a slum that dwelt in a corrupt underworld controlled by a ruthless gang known as the Black Dagger. Fear was a way of life for the people here, and Jet had seen enough of the terror these streets had lived in his time on the service than he cared to see for the rest of his life. Some of the crimes he'd investigated made armed robbery look like jaywalking in a quiet country town.

Nearly twelve years ago, he had worked alongside Sandy Monroe—Sandy Kane, now, he reminded himself—in the hunt for a serial killer called Dogma by the local news agencies. Back then, crime had been business as usual, same as always. Jet had seen many hectic things since coming up onto the force, choosing the side of criminal investigation. Sandy, an officer in the homicide division, thought the stubborn yet resourceful detective with a reputation as a ruthless law enforcement officer who always got his man.

As far as Sandy was concerned, if Jet Black ever got a whiff of the killer called Dogma, he'd not only crack the case, he'd shatter it with groundbreaking efficiency. The Black Dog did not disappoint. Frances Augustine O'Massey, a.k.a. Dogma, had been locked away within a month of Jet Black being called onto the case.

His friendship with Sandy blossomed after the Dogma case. He'd learned during the hunt that she had suffered a particularly nasty divorce on Mars several years before. In the end, she had received the only thing she had ever wanted that had come of the failed marriage: the son, her pride and joy, Alexander Monroe. While Jet was sympathetic to her lot in life, their mutual comradery had never quiet reached the pinnacle that was love—though there had been nights he would have given all of his world for that dear woman. For years they had been the best of friends, and they had often conferred over various cases that they were involved in, though they never again had been paired on the field. That had been a shame, because Jet thought they'd always worked so well together.

They hadn't talked since the Guild of Shadows debacle, the first case Jet had ever worked with Spike. Now, they'd never talk again.

"This the place?" Faye asked as she emerged from the driver's side and peered above the rim of her sunglasses to the top of a run down tenement. About five stories tall, the place had the feel of a 1950's tenement before the Urban Renewal program allowed for better construction. The bricks had lost whatever color they had once been to the grey of age and wear. Of all the windows, only a few were intact. Many had obvious cracks and some had shattered so that no glass was visible. Jet remembered being here before, investigating a gruesome scene of one of Dogma's final dealings. The murder that Jet had used to crack the case.

"This is it," Jet confirmed as he pushed himself out of the passenger's seat. He lifted his eye to the sky, watching the swirling wisps of clouds as they flowed steadily to the east. Jupiter seemed to swell in his vision as the late-afternoon sun waned in the distance.

"God, it needs to be condemned."

The Black Dog grunted. "This place? It already is."

Faye frowned. "Why don't they just tear it down already?"

"Who knows." Jet drew a breath before he stepped up onto the curb and started for the door. Faye swallowed, touching the side of her hip to be sure that her sidearm was still in place in its holster before she slipped her sunglasses into place above her forehead, and followed after him.

5

"That it?" Faye asked.

The annoyance in her voice was pretty apparent. Jet bit his lower lip and stared ahead to the remnants of the splintered door, marked by yellow police tape. A single young officer stood out in the hall, and he could see another pair of cops just inside. The small, white sign with black block numbers above the doorway indicated apartment 418, the same room as indicated by the Dylan Cole profile Ben had shared. They'd found the right apartment.

Problem was, the place was crawling with cops. It was never a good sign if cops were surrounding the assumed residence of the present bounty-head. Benedict had said they'd found Sandy's personal belongings inside, missing since the day she'd vanished.

Under his breath, Jet cursed his luck. He should have known the place would still be a point of interest for ISSP. What would Harvey Lambert say if he caught Jet snooping around in his jurisdiction? A few colorful responses raced though Jet's mind. The memory of why he was here, of Sandy's brutal murder, immediately squashed any humor he'd initially found in the situation.

"Looks pretty obvious to me," he grumbled. He plucked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "The kid was at the massacre at the quick shop yesterday."

"What!" Faye snatched his cybernetic arm. Her emerald eyes sparkled wildly. She jabbed an angry finger against his chest. "I thought we didn't want anything to do with that fiasco!"

"Calm down. I told you, Sylvia Borden is a friend of mine. If she needs help, I'm going to be there for her."

"God dammit, Jet," she grumbled; then she fell silent.

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, he started forward. He watched the hallway around him under the brim of his hat. Faye fell into line behind him, and he could swear that he felt the heat of her glare burning into him. He didn't look back.

He passed the officer standing outside the bounty-head's apartment, tipping his cap in greeting as an excuse to inspect him. The name on his badge was Peྃa. Hispanic, early twenties, with a dark complexion—a goatee, neatly cropped hair, and intense eyes. The kind of eyes that made you take a step back. He was a big kid—six foot, six inches, lanky, with toned muscles—but still just a kid. He didn't seem to be in a very talkative mood, offering nothing more than an empty stare and a small nod as the two passed him. Jet decided he knew why the kid was in such a bad mood.

"Where are we going?" Faye demanded.

Jet cast her a sidelong glance. "The neighbors. Somebody's bound to have some information on this kid. Right now it's the only way to get an idea of where he might have gone."

Faye nodded. "Right," she grumbled. "And what is it you want me to do?"

"Just sit there and be yourself. Without bitching, that is."

The young woman folded her arms over her chest and flashed him a tiny smirk. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

Jet grinned. "Yeah, but they won't know that, will they?"


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

_1_

The resident of apartment 423 was no mere witness for the Black Dog. She'd moved into the building for nearly forty years ago, long before Salem's Haunt had dropped into slum status. This wasn't the first time Jet Black had stood outside her door, but it was the first time in almost twelve years. The poor old woman had been so crucial in bringing down the murderer of her own granddaughter, one of Dogma's unsuspecting, teenage victims.

He wasn't exactly sure she was still out here, but he understood her reason for coming here from the beginning, her desire to see good done in a world where evil reigned. He swallowed as he stood at her door and considered the consequences of meeting with the old woman, again, after all these years.

If it would bring justice to Sandy Kane…

Jet knocked. For several moments, nothing happened. Faye leaned against the wall, crossing her arms under her breasts as she glared at her partner. The former ISSP detective averted his eyes, waiting. The warning in the heat of her glare was all too apparent, and for once, he understood. With a grimace, reached out and knocked louder.

A moment passed. Something moved on the other side. At last, the knob turned, and the door opened a crack so that a pair of hazy, green eyes set over wrinkled cheeks on either side of a narrow, crooked nose could peer out at him.

"Yes?" the elderly voice softly croaked.

Jet smiled. "Loraine Hobbins. It's been a long time."

The hazy eyes blinked once, and then twice. "Do I know you?"

Faye grunted. He knew what she was thinking. _Typical_. He gave a sigh. "Loraine, it's me. Jet Black."

The old woman considered him for a moment. "You're Sandy's friend," she said finally. "Isn't that right? Jet Black?" She nodded finally, as if she had convinced herself. She smiled a bright smile that he hadn't seen in more than a decade and continued, "Yes, that's right. Sandy's friend."

He grinned. "So you remember me?"

Without replying, she slammed the door shut. Faye backed away from the wall, stunned. An amused smirk spread across her red lips.

"Just keep your mouth shut," Jet growled. In that moment, he heard the chain slide free, and the door opened. Loraine, a slender, stooped woman appeared in the doorway. Once a tall, able-bodied woman, old age and calcium deficiency had been hard on the old woman in recent years. Her hair, once black with streaks of grey had faded to white long ago. It broke his heart to see that Sandy's friend of so many years had grown…old. "Loraine," he said gently.

"Well, hello, Jet! Yes, I can see it's you."

"Of course it's me," Jet said. "It's good to see you again."

"Well, it sure is lovely to see you again, too." Her warm smile widened as she glanced to Faye. The young woman flicked a strand of black hair off her ear. "And you've brought a friend! Well, it certainly is a surprise to see you after all this time. Come in, come in! Please, come in. We'll have some coffee and then we can have our talk."

Jet shot Faye a look. Had the old woman been expecting them? He didn't see how that was possible. "Why not? Faye?"

"Sure, coffee sounds great," his partner replied.

Jet nodded. "Let's have some coffee."

Loraine peered from Jet to Faye and gave a little nod. "All right then. Coffee it is."

_2_

Innocent until proven guilty. That was the law. And there really wasn't any evidence against him as far as the death of Sandy Kane was concerned. Regardless, Dylan Cole was no saint by any stretch of the imagination, Harvey Lambert decided as he peered casually about the deliciously naughty array of posters that filled the walls in his tiny, disheveled bedroom.

Beautiful women of a several nationalities bared more than their souls in a wide variety of enticing poses, from teasingly suggestive to downright explicit. He pushed his glasses higher up on his narrow, crooked nose and leaned toward one of the posters. A dark-haired vixen knelt naked on the beach, caked from head to toe with wet sand, leaning forward with her bright-red lips puckered up as if to kiss the camera. He snorted and gave his frazzled, brown and grey mustache a tweak.

"Melanie Wahlberg," Lieutenant Richard Kitch explained as he leaned against the doorframe between the main room of the three bedroom apartment. "The pride of the Swedes. Or so they say. Been on the cover of every men's entertainment magazine in the last five years." Kitch straightened and moved on into the room to stand next to the commissioner.

Aside from the posters, there was a calendar showing various panoramic scenes of some of Earth's most beautiful places, prior to the hyperspace gate explosion of 2021. It seemed odd that cold-blooded killer would have such a calendar on his wall, but if Cole was indeed a killer, he had one on his wall. The floor was littered with dirty clothes and boxes filled with books, magazines, and Internet data-pads. Among the boxes, there were also stolen goods. Some of the loot had belonged to Sandy Kane, according to serial numbers and fingerprints.

Harvey grunted as he shook his head.

As far as he was concerned, just because a street punk and a thief possessed a few items did not link the kid to a murder. There was no weapon, no blood. There was nothing to link him to the scene of the crime at all. The unmarked car where Sandy's body had been found had been littered with fingerprints, none belonging to Dylan Cole. The scene of the crime was in a crime-ridden neighborhood on the other side of town, where crime lord Xavier Kudrow ran his 'business.' Harvey had been trying to hook Kudrow to shady dealings in the past, but crooked cops who ran that side of town were very good at keeping the bulk of ISSP clear of the area.

It should have been easy enough to place one of Kudrow's men at the scene of the crime, but that wouldn't be possible when it came to _this_ crime. Apparently ISSP was already convinced this Dylan Cole was responsible. There was no doubt in their minds: Cole was a cop-killer. Harvey just hoped they weren't wrong, but he feared that they were.

"Who's this?" Richard asked, tapping a gloved finger onto the nightstand next to the bed, where several photos in frames displayed a variety of people.

"That's a family portrait," Kitch replied. "Ten years ago. Mom, Dad, big brother, and our suspect. No other brothers or sisters in the family, before or after the photo. Pop's name is Cyrus Cole. A minor shareholder of AkitaHartz Insurance, now debunked. Mom's Rebecca Conroy-Cole, daughter of starship magnate Gordon Conroy. The folks have been dead for six months now. They were piloting a privately owned cruiser well outside protected airspace. Apparently they were hit by pirates who looted the ship and then blew it up with the passengers still onboard."

Harvey grunted. Sounded like radical space pirates to him. "And this photo?"

"More recent. Probably within the last two years. The guy is the older brother. Jason Cole. One of the kooks that were gunned down at the quick shop yesterday."

Harvey gave a nod. "And his squeeze?"

Richard pulled off his hat and mopped some sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. "Darby Jones. A CNA at Jack Ryan Memorial Hospital on Mars. Born into a pretty prestigious family, but her brother got them into trouble a few years ago working for the Red Dragon syndicate." Harvey's mind raced with that bit of information. The Red Dragons. They had been the ones responsible for the massacre the previous day.

The thought gave him pause. Three things bothered him. One: why would Dylan Cole aid the Red Dragons in a shootout that would wind up killing his very own brother? Two: why would Cole's parents be foolish enough to wander outside protected airspace and risk the very real possibility of being robbed and murdered by space pirates? It just seemed a bit too convenient. Maybe there was a connection between that incident and the massacre at the quick shop across town. And three: the Cole family had come to Ganymede to escape the Red Dragon syndicate. Apparently Cyrus Cole had left on good terms. Why, if he had wanted nothing more to do with the syndicate after all this time, had they waited so long to call upon the services of his son?

All good questions. Harvey didn't have a single answer for any of them.

Richard ran his finger through his thick, dirty-blond hair and grunted. "We aren't getting anything useful out of all this, are we, Harvey?"

The commissioner shrugged. "Just a glimpse into the past, Lieutenant," he said quietly as he gazed to Melanie, as if somehow sharing an intimate connection with the image staring back at him. Finally, he turned back to the young officer. "And not much more. Nothin' useful, anyway."

Still, if there was anything to be found here, he _would _find it.

_3_

"Sugar, Miss Valentine? Do you take one lumps or two?"

Faye blinked at Loraine. _Miss _Valentine? An amused smile played on her lips. "Just one, thank you."

The frail, old woman gave a nod, her face wrinkling pleasantly in a smile that brightened the room, and then used a spoon to pluck a single cube of sugar from the bowl on the brass tray in the center of the table. By her accent, Faye knew her ancestors had come from the UK, and most likely from England. She didn't bother to ask.

With her spoon, Faye broke up the sugar cube up into the steaming brew. Loraine cut small slivers of pie from a near-empty pie tin and slid a dish toward her. Faye smiled her thanks and peered over to Jet as he shoveled big bites of lemon meringue pie, grinning like a big kid. It'd been a long time since she'd seen the old man so happy, and it made her smile to see it. Apparently Loraine knew Jet well enough that she hadn't asked him if he would like sugar. He preferred his coffee to be extra strong, extra black, and extra hot. Loraine didn't bother with a question, and had simply slid a steaming mug his way before she'd even thought about preparing a cup for Faye.

No big deal. Faye was a bounty hunter, the same as Jet. This was a business trip above all else, much as Jet seemed to be enjoying himself. A distant memory, Faye decided. Let him enjoy himself. Who knew if he would have another opportunity to visit old friends. Two birds with one stone, she decided. They'd find out about Dylan Cole, and at the same time Jet could visit an old friend. It was a reasonable tradeoff.

"Did you have an opportunity to attend the funeral?" Loraine said as she leaned against the table, drawing a deep breath as if to gather enough strength simply to fall into her chair. She seemed so feeble, Faye thought. Did this old woman actually live alone?

Jet fingered the rim of his cup. Faye could see the little ripples of black coffee as his hands shook, but he his tone was even. "No. I couldn't make it," he admitted, sounding apologetic.

Loraine smiled sadly. "I wondered about you. After I heard, I mean. I just hoped that you remembered her. As foolish as that sounds. I knew you'd never allow yourself to forget Sandy. That poor young woman…" She shook her head and finally lowered, slowly, into a chair. Faye was impressed that she was able to remain upright as she drew a few more deep breaths. She wheezed, and Faye wondered how it was possible the frail body could find energy enough to draw so much as a single breath.

Jet reached out and took one of the old woman's hands in his own. "I miss her too, Loraine."

"Yes." Loraine's old eyes sparkled with life; she gave his hand a gentle pat. "Yes, of course you do." She gave his fingers a squeeze. Faye wondered just who Loraine was. She could see the woman before her, but what was her story? Just how had she found herself in a hellhole like Salem's Haunt? It didn't seem fair. "We all miss her. Sandy gave us back our freedom, Jet. She gave it all back to us."

_What does _that _mean? _Faye took a sip of her coffee to help keep her mouth shut.

Jet nodded. "Loraine, I need to know something about one of your neighbors."

"Yes? And who would that be, Jet?"

_4_

"Commissioner, you might want to take a look at this."

Richard shook with excitement as he dodged through the cluttered room, a small data-padd secured in both hands, as if he were afraid he might accidently drop it. Harvey looked up from the desk drawer he'd been sifting though and stood as the young lieutenant approached.

"I think I know how we can find out where Dylan's headed."

Harvey dropped the papers he was skimming through. "Well?" Richard lay the padd carefully into the commissioner's waiting hand. Harvey frowned as he skimmed the information. For a moment he couldn't believe what he was seeing, that anyone would be so foolish as to leave something this important behind him.

And also, furious that it might be true.

"Christ… Is this thing authentic?"

Richard shrugged. "Hard to say, but if it is…"

"No doubt. Okay, let's run with it. Might be the best thing we could hope to get from this dump." Harvey returned the data-padd to the lieutenant. He lowered his voice, eyes narrowed. He didn't want to leave any doubt in Richard's mind that he was dead serious. "Keeping in mind that if he left the planet…"

Richard nodded, confirming that he understood. "I'll raise the bounty."


	5. Chapter Four

1**Chapter Four**

_1_

An assassin swept effortlessly through the Red Dragon freighter _Tripoli_, blade flashing in the red glow of the emergency lights. Locked in a dance with death, the Reaper cut down Red Dragon crewmen as if they were weeds in a garden. Screams were cut short as heads tumbled from the shoulders of his countless victims.

From the shadows, a dead man watched. A small smile touched Vicious's lips as the traitors were quickly and efficiently executed. All had fallen before an effective alarm could be raised, and then the killer moved on. Vicious had never before seen such perfection.

Nicholai Fujita was certainly earning his money today.

Starting deep in the boughs of the massive freighter, the assassin hacked his way through each deck, making certain that everyone in each section of the ship was dead before continuing on. Vicious stepped over heaps of fallen flesh and oozing blood as he followed his employee.

When the deed was finished, the blood-soaked assassin lifted the katana to his pale lips, tasting gore that dripped from the blade. Alert, wild eyes came up to greet Vicious as he approached. With a nod, the dead man moved on past the Reaper and approached the bridge of his ship—he had already started thinking of it as _his_ ship—hands clasped tightly behind his back, face masked beneath a mass of silver hair. The Reaper smirked and fell in line behind him.

The blast door that closed the bridge away from the rest of the ship opened as he approached. Undeterred, he marched on inside, Nicholai right at his heels. He swept his eyes over the vast, semi-circular command center. Various systems were operated at stations to the right and left of the blast door. At the moment, no station was manned. Straight on ahead sat the captain's chair, that rose above the brightly lit room on a metallic base. Two other chairs sat to either side. Presently, only a single, slender figure was sitting. There was a woman in the captain's chair.

Vicious recognized her immediately. Captain Wren Zuri, who sat with her head held high, her long, raven hair tied back, a long, tight braid hanging over her left shoulder. Already, he could see the shock in her violet eyes as she met his gaze.

Surrounding her, her only defense, the eight members of the bridge crew, armed with rapid fire Tovi revolvers. They were already lifting their weapons to open fire. Nicholai, a black blur against the brightly-lit chamber, darted forward. The ring of steel announced the presence of his katana as he came forward like silent death.

"Hold!" Captain Zuri cried as she came out of her chair in a shot. The men's weapons lowered at the order. Most of them. One frightened man, his instincts for survival already triggered, fired a shot at the Reaper as he approached.

The man spun, the bullet passing harmlessly by, only to lodge in the wall and burst apart in a massive shower of sparks at one of the bridge stations behind him. His blade came up, in that instant, meeting the man at the waist and passing through him like a hot knife through butter. Steaming gore soaked the assassin and all those within range of the splatters as he continued onward, through his kill, a wicked smile etched on his blood-stained lips.

His blade came up, stopping at the chin of the captain as he glared up to her with sparkling eyes. She stood, unmoving, unafraid, as she stared back down at him. One of her young bridge crew darted forward to protect her, only have his arm grabbed at the wrist, twisted around, the bone snapped clean in two in a single, effortless motion as the Reaper continued to watch the captain as if she were the only threat on the bridge.

Wren's hand came up, an attempt to stop her men from any more foolishness. Her eyes never left the assassin. "Still surrounding yourself with only the very best, I see," she said calmly as she studied his features, wondering what he really looked like beyond the blood. He was no doubt very thin, snakelike in appearance, a narrow face and beady eyes. His smile proved a complete lack of compassion as he continued to study her with that wild-eyed gaze.

This man was utterly insane.

Wren held out a palm toward her crew, demanding their attention. "Put your weapons down. Vicious is our leader…not our enemy."

That brought a smile. "Wise beyond your years, Miss Zuri," Vicious said cryptically as he approached her. "Nicholai, stay your hand."

The Reaper complied, wiping the blood from his sword onto the shirt of the dead man before sheathing the blade. He smirked over to Wren. She bowed to him, respectful, and he bowed his head slowly in return. Vicious narrowed his eyes slightly.

He could see a mutual understanding between the two of them, and realized having both as allies could be a powerful combination. A cunning smile thinned his pale lips.

"Go find a place to clean up," he told the assassin. "I'm finished with you for now." He peered over to one of Wren's crew members. "Go with him. Prepare suitable quarters for both of us. We will be staying onboard for the time being."

The man bowed his head. "As you command," he said, though Vicious could see uncertainty in his eyes as he gestured for Nicholai to follow him. Ever the intimidator, the man called the Reaper merely bobbed his head, a dangerous little smirk on his face.

They vanished behind the closing blast door moments later. Vicious lowered his head slightly, peering to Captain Zuri from the corner of his eye.

"It's time to get permission to leave orbit, Captain."

She nodded, shooting a look to her communications officer. The man gave a quick nod of his head and set to work. "You did quick work on Chan," she said quietly as they stood side by side. "I should have known it was you from the moment we found him. It was your style."

He peered quietly at her, but said nothing.

Wren swallowed. She averted her gaze, feeling guilty for even having these questions in her thoughts. "Vicious, I thought you were dead… Where have you been these past three months?"

He had no interest in answering such a question, so he ignored it. "I've personally eliminated a traitor set in high standards during Mao's time as the head of the syndicate. The threat on Ganymede is subsided."

_2_

"Okay, this Dylan Cole really doesn't strike me as a cold-blooded cop killer," Faye grumbled as she turned off onto the main highway and drove away from Salem's Haunt, her first words since Loraine had offered her sugar. Jet didn't say anything right away. He was thinking about what Loraine had told them, about the kind-hearted young man that took out Loraine's trash every other day and took her shopping list to the grocery store on Tuesday nights. Faye was certainly right about Cole's personality; that really didn't fit any profile of any murderer Jet ever knew. Especially that of a gunman of who opened fire on countless innocent people in a quick shop.

Unless, of course, such a man was a contract killer. Someone who killed for someone with a hell of a lot of money and wanted someone else dead. The syndicate did that kind of thing all the time, almost as an afterthought. Dylan Cole's father had been under their influence, but what exactly was the connection? Funding, for some reason or another. Probably a variety of hidden accounts. The man was a share-holder of a dead company.

Then it struck him. AkitaHartz Insurance. Cyrus Cole had owned a share of a company that collapsed at the same time that the Red Dragon had lost its leader, the same time Spike had left the _Bebop _to face his past.

It couldn't be coincidence. But what other companies might have had similar ties to the Syndicate three months ago? Something he would have to look into.

"So what next?" Faye asked, casting him a sidelong glance.

"Let's get back to the ship," he said. "There's a few things I want to look into."

_3_

"Where are we going?"

Vicious sat in the command chair, ignoring Wren Zuri. The frustrated captain hadn't been able to get him to say much since he'd taken control of the ship. Over the past three months, the _Tripoli_ had been responsible for one of the few sources of income for the Syndicate, considering the hardships that had nearly struck it down for good. They had been ferrying minerals from the asteroid belt to Ganymede since news of Vicious's death had reached her ears three months ago.

It seemed those reports were premature, and completely unfounded.

"Captain?" The voice of her communications officer came up over the muted din of the bridge.

"What is it Johnson?"

"The bounty board just lit up, ma'am. Updates on two at-large fugitives." His eyes skimmed over the information. "Both with ties to Red Dragon."

Vicious turned his head slightly in the man's direction, considering.

Wren watched as long, silver hair masked his face. "Names, Johnson?"

"First, wanted for extortion, embezzlement, kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder…" He paused. "Several smaller charges. Formerly of Mars. Goes by the name of…"

"Ti Wong Chan." Vicious smirked. "Twelve million wulongs. Mr. Chan is a dear old friend of mine. I assure you, he is no longer a threat to the Syndicate. Let the cops and bounty hunters chase a wild goose. There is no body for them to uncover."

"Who was the other?" Wren asked.

"Dylan Cole. Quite a list here. Conspiracy to murder, numerous counts of murder, criminal assault, burglary, et cetera. Bounty set at two and a half million wulongs. Ganymede authorities are willing to pay that plus another four million if he's turned in alive."

Vicious nodded slowly. "I want that boy found and eliminated," he said as he peered through the forward viewport.

"Any idea where he might be heading?" the captain asked watched down at him.

The man leaned forward in the command chair, interlocking his fingers, nestling his chin between the nook of the knuckles and thumbs. "I have pretty a good idea. Set a course for Mars."

Wren nodded and pointed to her navigator. "You heard him. I want us to the nearest jumpgate within the hour."

The young man was already keying in the coordinates.

_4_

"How long have you known Loraine?" Faye asked, sitting at the edge of the table, her arms crossed under her breasts as she stared at the floor.

Her mouth was already watering, though she'd never admit to Jet how good it all smelled. He was right in the middle of slicing up an entire red pepper on the cutting board. The water was boiling, waiting for the rice. He'd even managed to get fresh sirloin, already marinated. Loraine had been nice enough to give them a loaf of home-baked bread before they left, insisting their visit alone was worth it when Jet had offered a few wulongs for her trouble. Faye was glad when she took the money, though she'd insisted it wasn't necessary.

"Quite a while now, actually, even if it's been a few years since we last talked." He used his knife to fling a wad of pepper seeds into the trash compactor. "She was a witness in my first case with ISSP."

Faye whistled through her teeth. "She seemed like a hell of a lady."

He chuckled softly. "Yeah. I think so too."

"You realize we're getting ready to step chin-deep into the biggest pile of shit this world's ever known, right?"

Jet grinned, tossing pepper into the slowly simmering strips of steak. "All we need now is a couple good pairs of cement boots."

"Funny boy."

"Some people think it's my best attribute."

Faye snorted. They laughed together for a moment as Jet added a few spices into his simmering pepper steak and headed over to the table to join her. They watched each other for a time before Jet drew a slow breath. "We've been partners a long time, Faye. You know I'm pretty level-headed. I don't run nose-first into any situation. I'm not like Spike." He leaned forward. "I just wanted to thank you for trusting me with the Cole situation."

She eyed him a moment, brow furrowed. "Can I tell you something real quick?"

"Sure."

"I _don't _trust you!"

Jet blinked. The force of her anger caught him off-guard, and he had to take a step back.

"Don't you dare give me that look, Jet Black," she said heatedly as she jumped to her feet. "You know what's going on, at least, but you never say a damn thing! Is that what you're looking for in a partner, or do you keep me around because I'm the only woman willing to get within five miles of you?" Jet blinked again, dumbfounded by the accusation. Hands on her cocked hips, Faye leaned forward, her lips curled into a tight sneer. "Ever since we entered the transit rings, you've been calling the shots, and you're dragging me deeper and deeper into this shit!"

"Now just a damn minute! I call the shots because it's my ship, hotpants!"

"So I shake my ass for you and you let me come along for the ride? I'm a member of this _team_, Jet. You know what a _team_ is, don't you?"

He slammed a fist onto the table. "Would you stop saying that?! I really don't find you all that attractive anyway."

Now, it was Faye's turn to blink. She took a step back, eyes shifting out of focus as she leaned back against the table, scratching her head.

"Really?"

"All I see is a creepy little sneak," he replied candidly as he leaned against the table next to her, folding his arms over his chest. "A very good creepy little sneak, but a sneak nonetheless."

Faye peered to him out of the corner of her eye. "That so?"

"Faye, you're my partner, not eye candy."

"Then why do you insist on keeping things from me?"

Jet shrugged. "I really don't know all that much more than you do."

"That so?"

He nodded. "That's so."

She closed her eyes and considered that tidbit for a moment, and then peered to him again from the corner of her eye, flicking a strand of black hair from her face. "All right. Then answer this."

"Shoot," he said, another nod as he waited.

"Can you at least involve me in some of the decisions?"

Jet uncrossed his arms. "All right, all right. You got it."

"All right then." Faye smiled smugly as she reached out and rapped his flesh and blood arm with her knuckles. "That's all I wanted to hear."


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

_1_

"We think he left the colonies," Kitch grumbled as he slid into Alex Kane's vehicle. He watched Kane from the corner of his, through the side of his sunglasses. "Likely on his way to Mars, from the looks of it. We found a computerized title, so we have a relatively decent understanding of his whereabouts."

Alex frowned, stroking his jaw. "That'd certainly explain the hike in the bounty. Lambert really wants this case, doesn't he? The DA must think he has some dirt on the kid if they want him alive."

"Or maybe he's the one with the dirt, ay, Alexander?"

Alex's frown deepened at Richard's comment. "What do you mean?"

"Lambert thinks this kid might be the key to unraveling the syndicate for good," Kitch replied. Alex's frown became a scowl. Kitch figured he already knew what he was going to say, but he said it anyway. "If he was the one who walked out alive, obviously he was the one the syndicate pulled aside and told to off the others."

"That's insane!" Alex growled. Both of his fists slammed against the steering wheel. If Richard wasn't a good friend, he likely would have jumped through the roof. "Are you seriously suggesting we cut a deal with this bastard?"

"Not me. Of course not. That was all the DA's doing, and Lambert backs the DA a hundred ten percent." Richard used his middle finger to push his sunglasses higher up to the bridge of his nose, turning to look the rookie in the eye. "I want this guy to fry more than anyone on the force, save maybe you. Your mom and I went way back, kid. Nothing would please me more than putting the bastard who killed her on ice. But we're talking about the syndicate, and when it comes to the syndicate, it's all or nothing. If it's nothing, you're dead."

Alex grumbled something under his breath, tapping the steering wheel. "All right… I can't begrudge you the truth. So just do your best."

Kitch nodded. "Always do, kid."

He was out of the car a moment later, and Alex tore off down the street. Apparently he was worried that suddenly they were racing more than just the syndicate. All the better, of course, as far as Richard was concerned. The more confusion, the better. With so much at stake, this was the chance they'd been biding for. He lifted his satellite phone to the ear. "Get me Connor," he said slowly. "Othello Connor."

_2_

Before another word could be spoken, the video-phone rang. Jet turned toward the machine, but Faye was already there, reaching out to activate the viewer. A face he recognized appeared on the screen, but obviously Sylvia didn't see him. The two women glared at one another, neither budging as they let their thoughts merge into one simultaneous demand.

"Who the hell are you?"

Jet froze at the intensity at which they glared at one another. Veins of both women pulsed against their temples, and their nostrils flared. Both voices mended into one chaotic cry, brewing with the ferocity of a potential cat fight. Had the tension been any less, he might have laughed at the predicament. He drew a slow breath and folded his arms, waiting.

"Well?" Faye growled.

"Well what?" Sylvia snapped.

"You called us! So talk!"

"Faye!" Jet yelled, and grabbed her arm, pulling her gently away from the videophone for a moment, fixing her with a meaningful glare. Her eye twitched as she glared, a panther on the prowl, a cobra prepared to strike. Jet soothed her with a calm voice. "Let me handle this, all right?"

She jabbed his chest violently with a rigid finger, scowling. "Fine then. Handle it."

Jet turned back to face his old boss. He paused. The look on Sylvia Borden's face matched that of his partner's. "Hey, Sylvia. My partner, Faye Valentine. Faye, my old boss when I first joined ISSP, Sylvia Borden."

"Get on with it, Jet!" Both women were red-faced with anger as they growled simultaneously. Jet felt himself crammed smack-dab between two of the strongest willed people he had ever met. He'd seen both of them as they suffered a bout with PMS, and it was a toss-up between who could raise the most hell on that particular day of their respective months. Sylvia had been graying when he'd met her, but even now he could see the resemblance in the features of both women, primarily in the fire that burned within them, igniting their rage.

Jet rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous.

"What'd you find out, Jet?" Sylvia asked finally, a sharp edge to her tone.

"Not much," he said truthfully. "All I know is this kid has a shoddy record, but no violent streak." The former cop shrugged heavily. Behind him, Faye continued to growl softly, grumbling occasionally through clenched teeth as she bore twin holes into the back of his head with her piercingly dangerous eyes. Jet chose to ignore her. "Remember Loraine?"

Sylvia nodded. "Quite clearly."

"The kid was a very good neighbor to her. About as friendly as a young man could be. Never hurt a fly. He helped her out a lot around her apartment. Cooked and cleaned and took out the garbage on a consistent basis. Even did her shopping."

"Jet, Harvey _found_ a ton of stolen goods in his apartment."

He threw up his arms dramatically. "Theft and murder are two completely different crimes, Sylvia. You should know that better than most."

The confidence wavered in the former commissioner's emerald eyes. She slunk back at his argument, but only for an instant. When she spoke again, her voice retained the defiant power of before. "He _killed_ Sandy Kane. A colleague! More than that, she was a _friend_, Jet, both yours and mine. You know _that _better than anyone!"

Jet swallowed. Sylvia was certainly right about one thing. Sandy had been a good friend. His heart ached for her loss. He just wasn't sold on this kid being her killer. That seemed a rather simple answer for a situation that couldn't possibly have been so simple. In his mind, the truth was by far more complicated. In all his years as a detective, he was certain that to be the truth. Sylvia and his old ISSP mates were just chomping at the bit to nab a patsy, a scapegoat, but that wouldn't bring Sandy Kane justice.

Still, a bounty was a bounty, and this guy was worthy six and a half million wulongs. In the cowboy business, you couldn't afford to pick and choose based on merit.

"Anyway, we know where he's going, Jet."

His eyes flicked up at hers, focusing in an instant. "What?"

"Harvey found the title to his ship," she said slowly. "A hopper named the _Hotaru_."

"The _Hotaru_?"

Sylvia nodded slowly. "Registered to one Cyrus Cornelius Cole."

"The father," Jet murmured. He considered that bit of information for a long moment, scratching his head before he made a decision. He and Faye would have to track down the _Hotaru_. Meanwhile, there was still the matter of AkitaHartz. Jet drew a slow, deliberate breath. "Sylvia, I need you to do me a favor."

"What is it?"

_3_

"Mr. Artest?"

The man at the barstool sent a lingering glance to the man with the phone.

"Telephone for you, sir. From Ganymede."

"Ganymede?" he mouthed. With a frown, he accepted the phone. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Artest," the voice replied. "Brad Artest?"

"That's me."

"Lieutenant Alexander Kane, Inter-Solar Systems Police. We need to ask you a couple questions, sir."

There was only one reason ISSP would need to call a broken broker, Brad thought. "Let me guess. Cyrus Cole? You're the third person in two days. The truth is, I don't know who killed him, and I don't know his connection with the Red Dragons. I barely knew the man himself. Those the questions, mister?"

"No sir. Quite the contrary. Just a question of curiosity. AkitaHartz's CEO, Gideon Kane was killed last month."

"Yes, I know," Artest replied. "He was caught in the crossfire of a local gang war. Drug deal gone bad."

"That's what they say. Mr. Artest, have you ever heard of a man named Ti Wong Chan?"

The broker frowned parting his ear from the headset for a moment. "Yeah, I have. He sat on the board with me for about a year and a half, but sold his shares a month ago."

"Sold his shares," Kane echoed. "According to the records, that happened within a day of Gideon's death, did it not?" Brad's frown deepened, but Kane didn't wait for an answer. "And why, Mr. Artest, do you believe that to be?"

"My God," Brad murmured, realization surging through him.

"ISSP recently filed to have a bounty placed on Ti Wong Chan's head, Mr. Artest," Kane said slowly. "Any idea where he might be?"

Artest swallowed. "Yeah… he's on Ganymede."

_4_

Early the next morning, Jet and Faye were on the road again. Faye scowled at him when they pulled up to a building she thought she recognized, but she wouldn't jump him until she'd backed him into a corner. Or so he assumed. Instead, she spoke up in a rather soft manner.

"What is it we're doing out here again?"

Jet glanced to her from the corner of his eye. She was slumped deep into the passenger's seat, glowering at the building before them. Instead of ignoring her, like he would have done before their discussion the previous evening, he leaned back and scratched the back of his head. "Remember when I told you I had a meeting with some friends I made while I was with ISSP?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, it's partially true."

Faye's brow twitched as she fixed him with her most dangerous scowl. He almost cowered… almost. "Jet, did you _lie_ to me?"

"I said it was partially true," Jet snapped. "They're old friends, and I met them while I was with the force."

Faye folded her arms beneath her breasts. He though perhaps she was about to explode, but she'd done a remarkable job controlling her anger over the past few months, especially since it had been just the two of them. Instead of fuming now, she simply rolled her eyes. "So, you didn't answer my question. What _are_ we doing here?"

"They live here."

Faye frowned. "Jet, this is a psychiatric ward."

"Yeah," he replied.

"You're kidding, right?"

Jet shrugged. "They're good friends, Faye. Not every nutjob is a psychopath." He pushed the car door open and grinned. "Not like the guys we hunt for a living. This is a minimum security site. Even if the patients can't go wherever they please, they're a pretty tame bunch."

"And what's the deal with coming here now? I didn't think we had time for this." Faye leaned forward, peering up the side of the five story complex. "You had your thing at the Roost, remember? Don't we need to be thinking about getting to Mars?"

"Well, this is business now." He slammed the car door shut, lowering to peer at her through the window, which was lowered a crack. "You comin' or what?"

Faye seemed to think it over. "This time… yeah." She pushed open the passenger side door and stepped out. "Let's just get this over with, okay?"

They walked to the front entrance, where they met a tall doorman with dark eyes, who let his gaze slide slowly up and down Faye's slender form before fixing his gaze on Jet. He folded his arms over his chest and wrinkled his nose. The former ISSP detective glowered back up at him.

"Where the hell've you been?" the man growled. He was at least a head taller than Jet, white and thickly muscled, a blond fumanchu mustache and shaved head. "Kiki's been waiting for you."

"Kiki?" Faye blinked. "Who's Kiki?"

The man scowled, but before he could say anything, Jet thrust a finger in the guy's chest. "Just open the Goddamn door, Hugh."

"As you command. Then the man bust out in a huge grin and did as he was told. Jet grinned back. "Faye, meet Howard Hugh. This is the ward's chief of security."

"Oh, well…" Faye shook her head and glared at Jet. "Wait a second… Security? I thought you said it was minimum security installation."

"I did. This guy is the chief of the staff, and he makes up a third of that staff." Jet thrust his hand out. Hugh, a big bear of a man, maybe a few years younger than Jet, took it and gave it a good shake. "At least he did back when I was on the force."

"Still do."

"You two always greet each other like rabid assholes?"

"Just grumpy old men, miss," Hugh replied, a shit-eating grin on his face. Jet laughed out loud. Faye simply rolled her eyes.

"Hugh, this is my partner in crime, Faye Valentine. We've been chasing bounties together for awhile."

"Well, she's a doll, Jet," Hugh said. He offered Faye a hand. She blinked, and then reluctantly accepted it. Before she knew it the man had bowed his head and kissed her wrist in a gentlemanly manner. "Never in my days have I seen a woman of such refined beauty with such… visually endearing attributes."

Faye blinked.

"He said you were sexy," Jet said. "Without trying to offend."

Hugh gave her a wink and a shrug. Faye suddenly went beat red. "It is true, miss. Pardon my manners… it's just that I've never seen Jet with such a pleasant woman who wasn't already admitted."

"Well, you know Jet… he's into Loony Toons."

"Oh, both of you can just screw off," Jet grumbled, but there was a smile plastered on his face. "Look, you were right about one thing, Hugh… I'm here to see Kiki, along with Fernando and Kennedy."

"All still here, Jet," Hugh replied. "Just check at the desk."

"We'll do that," Jet replied, and guided Faye on inside.


End file.
